


The Sign of The Fire

by abundantlyqueer



Series: A Captain John Watson MD Mystery [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Case Fic, F/M, Het, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The first Captain John Watson MD mystery,<br/>based on 'The Sign of the Four' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first Captain John Watson MD mystery,  
> based on 'The Sign of the Four' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**_Prologue_ **

_London, September 2009_

 

_The percussive clatter of a light machine gun, the sound clipped and diminished in the open air. Clear sunlight and a warm breeze laden with the perfume of poppies._

_The abrupt whump and bang of an RPG exploding among the furrows of a tilled field, throwing crumbling clods of golden earth into the air._

_A massive boom pops his ears and jars his skull. A split second later the ground jolts under him; a huge brown and gray plume unfurls into the sky on the other side of the dark green line of trees._

_“Bollocks that’s a bit close,” someone laughs._

_“That’s it, let’s go,” he shouts._

_The leaves of the shade trees beside the courtyard wall are deep, glossy emerald-green on top, delicate yellowish-gray underneath. The wooden door is emerald-green too; it jumps and rattles on its hinges when he kicks it._

_They’re crouched on the unshaded side of a low wall, parchment-pale rough plaster and packed dirt. The sharp taps of small arms fire, and then a flurry of loud cracks as rounds pass within a few feet of them._

_“Can you just not?” someone says irritably._

The darkness is stained sulfurous yellow by the streetlights.

_The resistance and yield and click of the fire-selector on his assault rifle._

_He’s crouched in tall meadow grass. He flicks his hand, gesturing forward; the cool, silky stems catch in the gap between his buckskin glove and canvas cuff, striping across his bare wrist._

_He’s hunkered down among the roots of an old, crooked tree. The young soldier next to him is humming tunelessly under his breath._

He’s lying on his back, eyes closed and limbs heavy.

_He’s running, his boots biting into soft earth and freshly sprouted grass._

_The LMG gunner is standing up, firing from the hip. The spent casings scatter in the clay like bright, brass seedpods._

_He’s on the ground, pinned by the pain exploding in his shoulder._

He shifts against the restraint of the blankets tangled around him.

_He’s kneeling in the grass, watching a young soldier firing towards the trees._

_“Elbow up, don’t let it drag,” he corrects mildly._

_He’s on the ground, trying to squeeze his breath past the agony in his shoulder._

_He’s running as hard as he can. He stumbles, rights himself with a hand to the ground, and surges forwards again. The shot to his shoulder catches him mid-stride, spins him, slams him into the ground with his leg angled badly under him._

John’s eyes snap open and he sits bolt upright in his narrow bed, gasping for breath in the half-darkness.

After a few seconds, he’s able to look around, confirming the proper placement of lights and shadows in his surroundings. He inhales deliberately, exhales shakily. He’s shivering, despite a tee-shirt and sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks, and two thickly woven blankets.

He drops back onto the pillows again, one hand clutching a pillow-corner.

Inhale, exhale.

He can hear rain rustling at the open window and, more distantly, a dog barking.

Inhale. Exhale.

 

An hour later, he allows himself to switch on the small lamp on the nightstand. He gets up from his bed and remakes it, slowly and with great precision, moving as silently as he can because it’s still deep night and other people may be sleeping.

He switches on the floor lamp too, and sits on the side of his bed, his hands pressed between his knees. His cane rests against the desk chair, on the other side of the small room.

Hour by slow hour, the darkness gradually fades and the lamps’ lights dissolve into the pale dawn.

 

It’s morning. John is freshly showered, his hair darkly damp and his face flushed pink. He’s fully dressed, his sweater sleeves aligned on his shirt cuffs, his open shirt-collar folded back from the neckline of his tee-shirt, the hems of his dark denim jeans smoothed over the insteps of his polished brogues.

He sets his cane against the corner of his desk and sits down. He opens one desk-drawer and extracts his laptop, revealing the dark, angular bulk of a pistol beneath. He closes the drawer again, sets his laptop on the desk, and opens it.

He pokes a key, and the screen brightens to display a one-month appointment calendar. Every column is blank except for the item ‘Ella Thompson 10:30-11:30’ each Wednesday, and a single additional item for the current Wednesday, ‘Sarah Sawyer 12:30-13:30’.

 

The early rain gives way to an overcast day; the city sky and streets are the same flat gray. The mid-morning foot-traffic is light enough not to impede John’s progress, despite the off-kilter, slightly lurching swing of his stride. At each step, he plants the foot of his cane solidly into the pavement, and sways his weight past the pivot of his rigid right arm. His face is pinched, forehead and mouth compressed in equal parts discomfort and determination. He turns aside and passes beneath the wrought-iron marquee and hanging lantern of the Criterion’s entrance. He opens the heavy mahogany door with an awkward push of his right shoulder and elbow, his hand encumbered by his cane.

Inside is luminous. A broad avenue of pillars and arches, creamy marble and golden glass, reflect the twinkling lights and glittering gilt of the vaulted ceiling. John crosses a stretch of close-piled crimson carpet, past the bar and lounge area to the restaurant.

“Reservation for Sawyer,” he says to the attendant waiter.

“That reservation’s for half past twelve,” the waiter says, studying the list in front of him.

“Runs on a taxi-meter does it, the table,” John says.

“Of course not, sir,” the waiter says quickly. “This way, please.”

He leads John through the ranks of white-veiled tables. Most are unoccupied, but there’s a trickle of people coming in, and everything’s clearly in the state of poised readiness that precedes a rush. The waiter halts at a small table off to one side.

“Anything from the bar?” he asks, accepting John’s jacket.

“Glass of wine,” John says, easing himself down into his chair and propping his cane against the corner of the table. “Mess red is – sorry, house Merlot is fine.”

The waiter withdraws, but returns almost immediately with John’s wine, and a menu printed on an ostentatiously large piece of thick cream cardstock. John reads it thoroughly, then thoroughly again. He requests the wine-list, receives it, and reads that as well. He adjusts his cuffs and the back of his collar, and brushes nothing visible off the dark denim covering his thighs. He rubs the slight roughness of his chin, frowning in dissatisfaction – he’s had to trade the smoothness of a morning shave for the additional healing hours of a nighttime one. Whether he uses his naturally inept right hand, or newly re-functional left, shaving always involves some cursing and bits of blood-spotted toilet tissue.

The restaurant is filling fast now, people coming in from the bar and lounge area in ones and twos and small groups. John glances them over absently, but then his attention is caught by a woman, unaccompanied, striding quickly into the restaurant area.

She’s small, and slender in a slightly raw-boned, outdoors kind of way. She’s wearing a pale colored raincoat, unbuttoned. It and the tawny silk scarf around her neck and her long, loosely bound brown hair are all fluttering around her in her haste.

She exchanges a few words with a waiter. He points towards the table where John is sitting, but John has already caught her eye, rising most of the way out of his chair.

“Doctor Sawyer?” he says as she approaches, the waiter trailing behind her.

“Sarah, please,” Sarah says.

“I’m John Watson,” John says, offering his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“ _And you_ ,” Sarah says, shaking his hand across the table. “Am I late? I am, aren’t I? I’m so sorry, I could _not_ get away.”

“No, not at all,” John lies with a ready smile. “I just got here myself.”

“Something from the bar?” the waiter asks, as Sarah bundles her coat and scarf at him and swipes a fallen lock of hair off her face.

“Chardonnay, please,” she says, stowing her purse under the table and sitting down opposite John.

“We can do a bottle if you like,” John says, nodding at the wine-list lying on the table.

“I can’t,” Sarah says, “I’ve got to run back to work after this – I’m in thrall to the NHS.”

“Right, of course,” John says.

The waiter returns with Sarah’s wine and a second menu.

“I haven’t been here in years,” John says. “I wonder if they’ve changed the menu.”

They peruse in silence for a minute or two.

“This is lovely,” John says, leaning back in his chair. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“I owed you something,” Sarah says, her smile – which has been quick but brittle – becoming softer and more sincere. “It was so kind of you to take the time to get in touch with me, after James – after he died.”

John’s eyes drop away from hers.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” he says tightly, “come to the funeral, or - ”

“The Medical Corps arranged it all beautifully,” Sarah says, her voice roughening a little. “They were quite shocked, I think. I suppose they don’t lose a Medical Officer very often - ”

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asks, setting a linen-draped bread basket on the table.

“Oh, em, yes,” Sarah says, her voice deliberately bright. “I’ll have the salmon, please.”

“I’ll have the same,” John says.

The waiter retrieves the menus and wine-list and withdraws.

“The photos you sent meant a lot to me,” Sarah says. “James wasn’t a very good correspondent – I’d never been able to picture where he was, or what his life was like there.”

“He was very highly thought of,” John says, turning the stem of his wineglass in his fingers. “The people he worked with had the greatest respect for his skills.”

Sarah exhales nasally, her mouth twisting in a humorless attempt at a smile.

“That’s what everyone from the Medical Corps said,” she says quickly. “James was so brilliant, so dedicated, so keen to _serve his country_.”

She tugs the falling lock of her hair tightly behind her ear.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice much softer.

“It’s okay,” John says. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“I couldn’t bear him being away,” Sarah says, “being _at war_ , so – archaic, and absurd.”

“Yes, yes it is,” John says.

Sarah’s eyes flicker over him. John accepts and returns her gaze steadily.

“I told him I wanted a divorce,” Sarah says quietly.

John breaks the connection of their eyes, looking down at the table.

“You must think I’m awful,” Sarah says.

“No, you’re not awful,” John says, looking up at once. “I don’t understand how women marry any of us in the first place.”

“I don’t know if that made losing him any easier,” Sarah says. “It certainly didn’t feel easy.”

“How long were you married?” John asks gently.

“Seven years,” Sarah says. “Not very long, I suppose.”

“It’s seven years longer than I’ve ever managed,” John smiles.

The waiter returns to set two large white plates in front of them, each bearing a painterly arrangement of salmon offset by a complicated pile of leaves and roots.

“What about you?” Sarah asks when the waiter’s finished with the brief flurry of silverware and water-glasses, and has left them again. “How are you getting on, being home again?”

“It’s, um, it’s a change,” John says, stabbing his salad with his fork.

“Your family is in London?” Sarah asks lightly.

“My sister’s in Aldershot,” John says.

“No one else?” Sarah prompts.

“No,” John says, his eyes holding hers. “I’m starting with a blank slate.”

Sarah looks him over appraisingly.

“What will you do now?” she asks.

John leans back in his chair, purses his lips, and narrows his eyes.

“Practice medicine, I suppose,” he says.

Sarah’s eyes widen and her eyebrows go up.

“Oh, eh, I was a doctor too,” John says rapidly. “Third year surgical registrar, before I joined up.”

“But you weren’t a Medical Officer,” Sarah says.

"God no,” John says. “I’m not that brave. If I’m in a warzone, I want a real gun and the right to shoot first.”

Sarah huffs a laugh, but it’s as much amazement as amusement.

“You – probably don’t approve of that line of reasoning,” John says, looking down at his plate.

“Honestly, it seems quite sensible,” Sarah says, “if you insist on going into a warzone in the first place, I mean.”

John smiles sheepishly. Sarah’s mouth curls slightly in response, but then her eyes sharpen abruptly.

“How long since you’ve practiced?” she asks.

“Um, five, almost six years,” John says.

“That’s a lot, away from surgery,” Sarah says. “It’s going to take quite some time to get back to where you were.”

“I’ve got time,” John says. “I’ve got - plenty of time.”

“You could get a locum job to keep you going, while you retrain,” Sarah says.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” John frowns, “though I don’t know that anyone’s going to leap at the chance to hire me – my reassessments are okay but my recommendations are six years out of date.”

“You think practice managers will pass you over in favor of a newly minted GP who’ll panic if his Biro runs out mid-prescription?” Sarah says. “You might be a bit rusty, but I’m sure you can keep your head in what passes for a crisis in family practice.”

“Well, it’s a pity you’re not hiring,” John says.

“I am,” Sarah says. “I’m down two full-time staff and I - ”

“Are you offering me a job?” John says.

“It’s just locum work,” Sarah says. “You’re over-qualified.”

“I accept,” John smiles.

“You’ll probably find it boring,” Sarah says.

“Boring’s good,” John counters, his voice vibrant and warm, “boring’s – great.”

Sarah flushes slightly, her eyes soft and bright.

“Alright,” she says. “That’s settled, then.”

She reaches across the table to touch the rim of her wineglasses lightly to John’s.

“Cheers,” John says, tilting his glass to hers.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**BOOK I**

**_London, October 2009_ **

****

 

The door to the exam room is standing open. John, leaning against the desk, makes a note in an open file, flips it closed, and adds it to a wire-basket holding a dozen other files. He glances at the wall-clock: five twenty-five. He tips his head back and rolls his shoulders cautiously.

“Doctor Watson,” the clinic receptionist says from the open doorway.

John sees that she’s accompanied by another woman and a boy of about twelve, whose left sweater-sleeve is pushed up, his forearm wrapped in a blood-stained dishtowel.

“Hallo, who’s this young warrior?” John asks.

“This is Jeremy, and this is Jeremy’s mum Karen,” the receptionist says.

“I wanted to know if I should take him to the A and E,” Karen says hurriedly, “I’d have gone straight there but we’re just over the way from you and I thought - ”

“Let’s have a look at the damage,” John says, gesturing Jeremy into a chair.

John pulls his stool under him and scoots closer. He unwinds the dishtowel, revealing a deep but short, and darkly clotted, wound on the inside of Jeremy’s forearm. Karen clasps a hand over her mouth in dismay.

“Bayonet, was it?” John says to Jeremy, peering intently at the wound.

“Iron railing,” Jeremy says bleakly.

John hums sympathetically.

“Well, it needs suturing, but I can do that for you here,” he announces. “I’ll give you a tetanus shot, and you’ll be right as rain.”

“Oh thank God,” Karen says.

 

Half an hour later John, cane in hand, walks Jeremy and Karen out into the reception area; Jeremy’s sweater-sleeve is pulled down, not quite covering the edge of the bandage on his arm.

The receptionist is gone, but Sarah is at the reception desk, shuffling through some papers.

“Thank you, again,” Karen says as she shepherds Jeremy out the door.

“No problem,” John says. “Let’s see him after the weekend to make sure it’s healing well.”

“Busy day,” Sarah says, when John turns from the door and comes towards her.

“Not bad,” John says. “Is every week like this?”

“Like what?” Sarah asks.

“Well, I started on Monday, and the most exciting thing I had all day was Missus Cordulay trying to sell me a raffle ticket,” John says. “Today’s Friday, and I’ve had three suture-worthy injuries, a partially detached retina, and a maybe adrenal crisis. Does it always pick up this much towards the weekend?”

“Oh, well, no – I mean,” Sarah says, tucking her hair fiercely behind her ear, “sometimes one doctor just happens to get - ” 

She trails off, clearly incapable of bringing the lie to any kind of convincing conclusion.

“Did you tell Audrey to give me all the acute cases?” John asks.

“You are good at them,” Sarah says.

“You - didn’t have to do that,” John says, his eyes bright.

“And you don’t have to buy me a drink,” Sarah says archly.

“Oh, right,” John smiles. “Is now good?”

“I’ll get my coat,” Sarah says.

 

It’s fully dark, the streetlights shining, when John and Sarah reach the front steps of her apartment building. Sarah starts up the steps, taking her keys from her coat pocket.

“Well, goodnight,” John says, lingering on the sidewalk.

“Don’t you want to come up for coffee?” Sarah asks, her expression mild but her eyes challenging.

“I – yes, very much,” John says, his eyelids flicking shut, and then open again.

He climbs the steps slowly to join her at the front door.

“It’s metaphorical coffee,” Sarah says, her voice too loud for the slight distance between them.

“That’s my favorite kind,” John says with a slight smile.

Sarah’s gaze softens and darkens. She leans in slowly, never breaking the connection of her eyes with John’s. John’s smile widens, and then abruptly falls away. Sarah’s gaze drops to John’s parted lips, and finally she closes her eyes as she touches her mouth to his.

They remain like that, barely touching, utterly motionless, for a second or two.

John tilts his weight, pressing their mouths together more firmly. Sarah drags the edges of her teeth slowly over John’s lips, and pulls away enough to look him in the face. John’s smile returns, tentative at first, then dazzling in its certainty.

Sarah turns away to unlock the front door and go inside, John following her. She leads the way up the wide staircase, John climbing laboriously behind her, one hand on his cane and the other on the banister.

Sarah goes to one of the two doors on the first landing. John crowds against her, his chest to her shoulder, and dips his face into the soft angle of her jaw and ear. Sarah melts into him, exhaling heavily as he draws the tip of his nose up and around the shell of her ear. She fumbles her key into the lock, opens the door.

“Oh my God,” she says.

John straightens up, his gaze following her horrified stare.

The lights are on inside the flat. It’s sparsely but expensively furnished; the pale carpets and curtains are spotless. On the far side of the living room, the bookcase is half-empty and the carpet is strewn with books and papers.

The bedroom door is half open, and the side of the room that’s visible is in disarray, closet doors open, clothes still on their hangers but shelves emptied, boxes and cartons thrown on the floor. A few pairs of shoes are strewn about, but the real mess is handfuls of papers and photographs, school copy-books and bound diaries, letters in envelopes, postcards – all the small ephemera of girlhood and womanhood, thoroughly rifled through and flung aside.

“I take it it’s not supposed to look like this,” John says.

Sarah shakes her head, looking around the living room blankly.

“Anything missing?” John asks, taking his phone from his hip pocket.

Sarah glances at the large flat-screen television on the wall, and then at the several pieces of pale, smooth porcelain arranged on a low shelf.

“I don’t - ” she begins.

The bedroom door slams fully open. A figure, swathed in dark clothes, his face obscured and his right hand buried in the half-unzipped front of his jacket, lunges out.

Sarah screams, a full-blooded cry of utter shock.

John’s between the intruder and the doorway. He drops his phone from his left hand, his right still leaning heavily on his cane.

“Sorry, mate, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time,” the intruder says to John.

He pulls his hand from inside his jacket, drawing a pistol, his gesture awkward because of the length of the suppressor screwed to the barrel, and aims it at John.

“No!” Sarah gasps.

The shot is still loud at such close quarters, a sharp rip rather than a bang. John is already dropping like a stone, coming down hard on his left knee and lashing out with his right arm, his cane cutting a whistling swathe through the air to clip the gun and knock it from the other man’s hand. The intruder wheels, tracking the gun as it hits the wall and then the floor on the other side of the room. John snaps his cane back, gripping it in both hands, and slams it across the backs of the intruder’s legs. The intruder drops, crashing to his knees.

He whiplashes around and lunges for John’s throat. John brings his cane up, two-handed, to block the attack. They’re stale-mated for a second or two, John’s still convalescent left shoulder and right leg too weak to throw the other man off.

Sarah wrenches her gaze away from the two men struggling on the floor, looks around in desperation, and grabs up a hefty, hard-covered book of wildlife photographs from under the coffee table. Clutching the book in both hands she takes two quick strides, swings the book and slams it across the back of the intruder’s head hard enough to bounce the book out of her grip.

The intruder bellows and slackens momentarily. John gives a triumphant grunt and thrusts him off, jabbing the end of his cane into the underside of the other man's chin. The intruder falls back. John swarms over him, shoving him facedown into the carpet and straddling him. John hooks an arm around the other man’s shoulder and slaps a hand to the nape of his neck. A slight jerk of John’s elbow, and the intruder cries out in pain as his arm is levered almost out of its socket.

“Oh my God, are you alright?” Sarah asks shakily.

“Never better,” John says, looking up at her with his eyes blazing. “Call the police.”

“Oh, right,” Sarah says, fumbling her phone out of her coat pocket.

The man under John lurches.

“Oi, simmer down before you hurt yourself,” John barks, flexing his elbow enough to elicit another sharp cry of pain.

 

John and Sarah are sitting on the couch in the living room, Sarah clasping her arms tightly across her torso. A uniformed police officer is crouched in the corner, transferring the pistol and its suppressor to a large, transparent plastic bag. A crime-scene investigator is taking pictures of the mess in the bedroom, while a uniformed policeman, and another uniformed policeman stands at the open front door of the flat.

“DS Donovan,” Sally says to him, showing her warrant card briefly as she crosses the threshold.

She detains the policeman carrying the bagged weapon as he’s about to leave.

“That’s a lot of gun for house-breaking,” Sally frowns.

She gestures the policeman away, and crosses to the couch.

“Doctor Sawyer?” she says pleasantly. “I’m Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, Metropolitan Police. I know you’ve already given a statement, but if you wouldn’t mind a couple more questions?”

“Of course not,” Sarah says, and then glancing at John, “this is Doctor John Watson, he’s a work collogue of mine.”

“How do you do, Doctor Watson,” Sally says.

She extracts a driver’s license card from her pocket and passes it to Sarah.

“The man we arrested is a Mister Jonathan Small,” Sally says. “Do you know him?”

Sarah shakes her head, staring at the photograph on the license.

“No, I don’t recognize the name, or the face,” she says, and hands the license back. “I suppose he just picked my flat at random.”

“Presumably,” Sally says. “We searched him and didn’t find any loot – is there anything missing, as far as you know?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sarah says. “We interrupted him.”

“Doctor Watson, do you generally accompany Doctor Sawyer home?” Sally asks mildly.

“Sadly, no,” John says with hardly a quirk of his mouth.

“It was a spur of the moment thing,” Sarah says quickly.

“I see,” Sally says. “So Mister Small could reasonably have expected you to return home alone?”

“Yes,” Sarah says without hesitation, her eyes sliding towards John. “Thank God I didn’t.”

“Doctor Watson, I understand you disarmed and subdued Mister Small,” Sally says, looking doubtfully at John, and his cane.

John’s features settle into pleasant neutrality.

“I hit him with a book,” Sarah says, almost contritely.

“Well, I think that’s all for now,” Sally says. “Mister Small with be charged with house-breaking, but honestly possession of that gun is the more serious charge.”

“Thank you,” Sarah says. “It’s alright for me to tidy up, then?”

“Yes, we’ve got everything we need,” Sally says. “We’ll be in touch.”

Sarah gets up from the couch. She murmurs thanks to the other officers as they follow Sally out of the flat. Sarah closes the door behind them, locks it, and fastens the security chain. When she turns back, John is on his feet, too.

“I’d better pick this up,” Sarah says, looking through the open doorway of the bedroom.

“You need tea,” John says.

Sarah manages an unsteady smile.

“I’ll make it, you start on this,” John says.

He moves to the kitchenette, and Sarah goes into the bedroom. She sinks to her knees and starts gathering the scattered photos and pages together.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

John comes into the bedroom, carrying two mugs a little precariously in one hand, his other occupied with his cane.

“Thanks,” Sarah says, getting up from her knees.

She’s gathered up the scattered photos and papers, and piled them haphazardly into their boxes. She accepts the offered mug and sips from it.

“Oh, I don’t actually take sugar,” she says with a little nose crinkle.

“You do right now,” John says. “Sit down and drink it, it’ll help steady you up.”

Sarah smiles, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“You’re very capable in a crisis,” she says, looking at John over the rim of her mug. “I thought you might be.”

“Well, you kept your head pretty well, too,” John grins.

His glance falls on the jewelry box on the dresser, its lid open and revealing several shining and sparkling strands.

“Is any of that real?” he asks, nodding towards the box.

“Yes, all of it,” Sarah says. “My parents gave me the pearls when I was growing up. The gold was my mother’s, and - the diamonds were a wedding present from James.”

John’s eyebrow lifts slightly, and his mouth narrows.

“What do you think Small was looking for?” Sarah asks. “What did he think he’d find, that was more worth stealing than - ”

“I – I assumed that was none of my business,” John says.

“No, I honestly don’t know,” Sarah says, shaking her head. “There’s nothing.”

John huffs his breath out, mingled doubt and dismissal.

“Well, whatever it was, he’s not going to get it now,” he says lightly.

“Sit down,” Sarah says, patting the bed beside her.

John looks a little dubious but he sits next to her and sets his cane against the nightstand.

“How do you feel?” he asks gently.

“Better,” Sarah says.

“Okay, well – give me a call if you need anything, or even if you don’t,” John says, all open-faced concern.

“You’re going home,” Sarah says evenly.

John frowns fractionally.

“Do you – I can stay the night, if you like,” he says. “I mean – on the couch, I don’t - ”

“I do,” Sarah says, her voice abruptly throatier.

John’s frown deepens slightly; Sarah takes his mug out of his hand gently with absolute decision. She gets up just long enough to set both mugs on the dresser and dim the light, then sits down again, closer to John than before and turned to face him more fully.

“You’ve had a fright,” John says scrupulously.

“ _I know_ ,” Sarah says, opening her pale eyes very wide.

John’s mouth wavers and his eyes gleam in the low light. Sarah leans in slowly, staring at his lips.

She touches her mouth to his, just a weightless, dry brush of skin against sensitive skin. John lifts his hand to her face, cupping her cheek lightly. His palm is callused, his touch hard-edged despite its delicacy.

Sarah drags her teeth softly over his lips, and he parts them slightly. She can taste the heat and humidity of his breath. She touches the tip of her tongue to his lips, to the edges of his teeth. John’s breathing thickens in his throat, the faintest break of sound in the silent room. His hand slips back from Sarah’s cheek into her hair. His tongue curls deliberately between her lips. His taste, beneath the tannic edge of black tea, drops heated and heavy into the pit of Sarah’s stomach.

She clasps one hand to the back of his head, her fingers splayed in the short, thick crop of his hair. His mouth leans into hers, the kiss deepening. Her other hand goes to his far shoulder, her fingertips biting into the softness of his sweater and the unyielding curve of bone and muscle below.

John’s voice breaks in his throat, his hand twitches in Sarah’s hair, and he draws back.

“Sorry, nothing really twists this far anymore,” he grimaces.

“Oh,” Sarah says, her tone sliding from surprise to melting tenderness.

She stands up, facing him, and leans down to him.

“Sorry,” John says, his gaze slicing away from hers.

“Don’t be silly,” Sarah says, dipping her face closer to his. “I’m a doctor, remember?”

John’s breath ruffles out, unsounded laughter.

Sarah steps back, her gaze falling away from his. She starts to unbutton her blouse, her fingers a little clumsy on the small, shell buttons.

“Oh,” John says very clearly.

Sarah glances at him, and the dark heat of his stare is enough to lift her chin and press her shoulders back. She parts the two sections of gauzy white cotton, pulling her blouse out of the waist of her skirt and slipping it off her shoulders. She’s wearing a fawn-colored slip underneath, and a cream-colored bra.

She drops her blouse to the floor and undoes the zipper at the back of her skirt. The soft, gathered fabric collapses down her legs to pool around her feet. Her legs are bare from below the hem of her slip, midway down her thighs.

Sarah’s arms and legs and chest are pale, with the slightest flush of gold marking the margins of sleeveless, short summer dresses.  

“You are – lovely,” John says, his voice low and a little breathless.

Sarah pulls the band off her ponytail. Her hair spills forwards over her shoulders, falling around her face.

“Bring all of that over here,” John implores.

Sarah takes two teasingly slow steps back to him and leans down over him. John slips his arm around her waist, urging her closer.

“Lie down,” Sarah breathes.

John’s eyelids slide lower, and his mouth curls subtly. He rocks his weight from one hip to the other slightly, heeling his shoes off. He shifts round on the bed, stretching his legs out and leaning on his elbow.

Sarah folds one knee under her, perching on the edge of the bed, and bends low. She takes his face in her hand – his cheeks and jaw slightly rough with stubble – and kisses him. John inhales, exhales fiercely, his hand going to the small of her back and then sliding brazenly downwards to grip her buttock and squeeze.

Sarah pulls back from his mouth.

“God, so lovely,” John murmurs.

“Take this off,” Sarah says breathlessly, already pulling the hem of his sweater up.

John curls forwards to bundle the sweater off over his head and drops it to the floor. He plucks at his shirt buttons, while Sarah drops fragmented kisses on his open mouth. John shoulders out of his shirt and throws it aside.

Sarah’s gaze catches momentarily in the soft, pulsing hollows at the base of John’s throat, and skims down past one short, white tee shirt sleeve to his bare arm. There’s a blurred curve of green and black ink showing just below his sleeve hem. His bicep is an angular crest of muscle, tucking abruptly into the crook of his elbow; his forearm is tanned golden brown, hazed with red-gold hair on the outside, and corded with heavy veins and tendons on the inside.

Sarah’s eyes widen slightly. She glances into John’s face, but he’s engrossed, drawing her to him.

Sarah lies down beside him. They fit together, John’s uninjured shoulder lowermost, his right arm beneath and around Sarah’s waist, his injured shoulder and dominant hand uppermost. He winds his fingers into Sarah’s hair, and draws her gently in. His kiss is slow, considered, and very thorough.

Sarah slips her hand over the gritty skin of his jaw, into his hair, and rubs one bare foot up and down his denim clad calf. John growls approvingly. Sarah runs her hand downwards, glancing past the angle of his shoulder, to his bare arm. She spans the hardness of his bicep with her fingers, and feels it flexing under her hand as John runs his palm up and down her side. She reaches lower, takes hold of his tee shirt just above the waist of his jeans, and pulls. White cotton comes free of dark denim. She slips her hand underneath and presses her palm to his side. She can feel warm skin, over a complex corrugation of bone and muscle.

Sarah tilts back and uses both hands to pull John’s tee shirt higher, exposing his chest. John lies back, frowning slightly.

His nipples are small, rose-pink, and haloed by a few strands of red-gold hair. A thin line of scar tissue, raised and red, snakes from beneath his gathered tee shirt on the hard slope of his left pectoral. Sarah traces her fingers down the light hair on his breastbone, over the taut plateau of his stomach, to the broad shallow oval of his navel.

Sarah glances up at his face. He's staring down at her, his eyes almost ink blue, his mouth half-open. Sarah slides her fingers down the line of hair below his navel, and pulls the tab of his belt out of its loops.

John shifts more fully onto his back. Sarah sits up, moving over him to straddle his legs, her weight on her heels. John slips one hand under his head, and sets the other lightly on her hip.

She gets his belt open, and his top button. The crotch of his jeans is distended, the bulk of his erection pushing against thick denim. Sarah scrapes her fingernails over the bulge, and John’s hips stir subtly. She tugs his lower buttons open, and each tug elicits a slight shift of John’s hips and a minute jerk of his chin.

“Lift,” Sarah says, curling her hands into the waist of his jeans.

John arches, almost raising Sarah on his shins, and she strips his jeans off his hips down onto his thighs. His skin, below the waist, is creamy pale. He’s wearing dark gray cotton underwear, and the sheer size of the erection stretching the thin fabric is enough to make Sarah’s eyes widen ravenously.

She shifts back on her knees, stripping his jeans down his legs. His thighs are roped with muscle; a broad, jagged band of pale scarring crosses his right leg a couple of inches above his knee. Sarah’s expression pinches subtly, crisp concern her instinctive response to any sign of injury or illness.

“I just came down on it badly,” John says, his tone elaborately off-handed.

Sarah looks up; John's mouth is set, his arm flexed behind his head, his chest and stomach bare, and the head of his cock soaking a dark spot on the fabric of his underwear. Sarah's expression softens and darkens. She pulls his socks off, strips his jeans down the rest of the way, and dumps the whole bundle onto the floor. She moves in again, her hand slipping past the scar on his thigh and up the crest of his quadriceps. Her gaze rakes upwards over the obvious bulge of his erection and onto his exposed torso. She unfolds beside him, stretching against his side, as her hand traces the same upward path.   

John winds his arm around her waist and pulls her onto him. He strains upwards, burying his face in her neck; his hand curls round her shoulder, slips down her spine, and grips her behind. Sarah digs her toes into the quilt and slides her weight slowly up and down against him. John growls his breath out, his body taut from shoulders to heels under her. His arm tightens around her and he spills her off him. He rubs the pad of his thumb over her flushed mouth, palms down her neck to cup one breast in its bra cup and squeeze.

Sarah’s voice catches in her throat. John shifts his weight, looming over her a little, and Sarah spills from her side onto her back. He presses his mouth to her ear, her collarbone, the upper curve of her breast.

Sarah voices another small, high gasp. She threads her fingers into John's hair, cradling his skull and urging him closer. He thumbs the curve of her breast up out its cup enough to expose her nipple, pinkish-brown and already firm. The first brush of his mouth makes her hips jerk, and her fingers tighten on his skull.

John presses harder, the heat and softness of his mouth engulfing her nipple, the sharp prickle of his stubble pressing into her skin. His fingers delve into the other side of her bra, coaxing her other nipple out. Sarah can’t stifle her little gasps of pleasure, the slight rock of her hips, or the insistent press apart of her thighs.

John licks with the flat of his tongue over the tip of her flushed and hardened nipple, and shifts his weight across her to bring his mouth to her other breast. His hand runs downwards to grasp the hem of her slip. Sarah lifts, as well as she can pinned by John’s shoulders and chest, and John rucks the silky fabric up onto her stomach, exposing her underwear and the tops of her thighs. John palms lightly over her bare hip, slipping his fingertips along the top edge of her underwear.  

“Yes,” Sarah hisses, as if the straining of her thighs and calves and pointed toes wasn’t eloquent enough.

John mouths softly up her throat. His fingers brush over the crotch of her underwear, a weightless tease of a touch. Sarah slips her hand up inside the back of his tee shirt, pressing her fingers into the braided muscles covering his ribs. John dips his hand lower, between her legs, and drags his touch up over the clinging dampness of the cloth there. Sarah whines softly.

He slips his hand up, and then down, dipping his fingers into her underwear. He drags his nails through the short, sparse hair on her pubis. Sarah inhales gustily, her hips pressing down and then curling up, blatantly inviting him lower. John hooks his wrist, slipping his fingers farther back, and the swollen folds of Sarah’s vulva part under his touch. She gasps sharply and clutches at him.

“ _Lovely_ ,” John breathes against her ear.

He curls his fingers, teasing out wetness from between the folds, drawing it forwards over Sarah’s clitoris. Her breathing breaks; she grasps John’s wrist and pushes his hand lower. He hooks his wrist again and presses two fingers into her almost to the knuckles. Sarah gives a loud, guttural groan of pleasure and draws her knee up to give him better access to her.

John moves his fingers in and out slowly, the pad of his thumb resting on the hard crest of her clitoris and massaging it with each stroke.

Sarah throws her head back, eyes closed and mouth open, breathing in long, shuddering gasps. Her body winds, unwinds, a luxurious rise and fall under John’s hand. John brushes his lips over the slant of her breast, the side of her neck, the hollow of her temple. She wavers a soft cry, and twists her hips from side to side, shrugging him off.

He pulls his fingers free, from her body and her underwear. Sarah’s eyelids flutter open, her gaze shattered as John puts his fingers into his mouth.

“Oh,” Sarah says, a tiny breathless whine.

She gathers herself with obvious difficulty, her breathing shallow and quick. She swipes her hair off her face, and then reaches down with both hands, working her underwear down her thighs. John pulls his fingers from his mouth, his lips curling, stretching into a feral grin as he reaches down to help. Sarah lifts her knees and, three handed, they manage to work her underwear down over her bare feet and toss it off the end of the bed. She rifles his tee shirt up off his stomach again, and cups his groin with both hands.

“Oh my – goodness,” she says, her face flushing as she realizes quite how inadequately her hands cover the long, thick bulge of John’s cock inside his underwear.

“Everything alright?” John asks, even as she presses him down onto his back.

“Perfect,” Sarah says with crisp authority, pulling his underwear down off his hips and past the head of his cock.

His shaft springs free, slanting up from his stomach. The heat and smell of him hit Sarah, making her gasp greedily. She tugs his underwear lower, down his thighs and shins and off over his feet. She unfurls over him, along his side, one of her knees between his. She scoops her hand under his balls, drawing them lightly upwards, stroking and then letting them spill from her fingertips. John inhales nasally, and his fist tightens on the pillow by his head.

Sarah’s fingers move from the soft weight of John’s scrotum to the urgent rigidity of his cock. He has a long, dark foreskin that furls over the head of his cock, even fully erect, and there’s a generous pool of clear fluid caught in the opening.

She draws her fingers up his shaft, and over the opening of his foreskin. John jolts slightly, and his cock pulses upwards from his belly. Sarah grins breathily. She draws her fingers down again, her touch silk-slippery now, and back up again. This time John’s head jerks up from the pillows and he bites off a grunt of frustrated pleasure. Sarah leans over him, bringing her face closer to his. She cants one leg over his thighs and slides on top of him. John presses his head back into the pillows, his body drawing taut under her.

Sarah shifts her weight, lifts a hip and settles it again, slanting John’s cock between her thighs. His hands go into her hair, clasping her skull gently. Sarah eases her weight up, and down, John’s foreskin and the top of his shaft slipping over the folds of her vulva.

“Oh – God,” John whispers emphatically, his hands slipping down to Sarah’s shoulders.

Sarah tips her hips, angling them towards his, so the head of his cock catches and presses in the hollow of her groin. His breathing turns harsher and more edged. She pushes up onto her hands and draws her knees up, her thighs splayed over his. She reaches down, grasping the shaft of his cock to keep it angled upwards as she slides herself back and forth over it.

“ _Oh_ ,” John rasps, his hands closing on her waist.

Sarah bears down, and John’s glans is pressed into her vulva, his foreskin wrung back by the tightness of her opening around his shaft.

John groans deep in his chest, and Sarah gasps softly. She catches her bottom lip in her teeth, her brows furrowing a little, and slowly pushes farther down onto him.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” John says as his shaft sinks deeper in her.

“That’s nice,” Sarah says with a crooked, open-mouthed smile, as her behind settles at the top of his thighs. “ _Big_.”

“Sorry,” John says, failing to convey any hint of contrition.

Sarah rocks forwards, almost unsheathing his shaft, and then drops back to push it in again. She and John both exhale hard; their eyes meet, widening in mutually dawning delight.

“Ready?” Sarah asks breathlessly.

“Oh yeah,” John growls.

Sarah straightens up, sweeps her hair back with one hand, and gathers the front of her slip up with the other to give John an unobstructed view of where their bodies interlock. She starts to move on him, a slow, smooth cant and tilt of her hips. John braces himself with his right heel in the quilt, and rocks his hips under her, counterpointing her movements.

Sarah’s spine and shoulders turn fluid, and her thighs spread wider as her body grows more confidently receptive. John grasps her thighs, his fingers biting into her softness, pressing them even farther apart.

Sarah circles her hips. She lets go of her hair; it spills forwards around her face. She strips her slip up and off over her head, leaving her naked except for her bra. She tips forwards, bracing herself with both hands on John’s ribs, and arches her spine to turn her movement to a more staccato up and down on him.

“Oh Christ,” John gasps, his eyes wide, his head and shoulders coming up off the pillow.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sarah says urgently. “ _Come on_.”

John nods, his lips pressed shut. He catches Sarah's hips and urges a slight forward and back into her movement. She gives a little, cut-off yelp of pleasure, and he groans, writhing under her, his hands tightening on her hips.

Sarah laughs, breathy, open-mouthed, and almost silent. John slams his head into the pillows, his breathing turning frantic.

She tips forwards, her breasts brushing his chest, her pelvis tilting away from his, his cock pulling partially out of her. He gives a clenched-teeth grunt and his hips kick under her, slamming them back together. Sarah slaps both hands onto his chest, giving herself leverage to grind down onto him.

“Oh Christ yes,” John pleads, “down, hard - ”

Sarah’s eyes narrow intently. She tilts back, bringing her entire body-weight to bear on his groin, and rocks her hips rapidly.

John’s eyes close, his breathing locks, his expression smooths into perfect assurance.

He arches under her, his breath coming out in a series of short, hard huffs. Sarah gives a loud, clear _oh_ of satisfaction as John’s body shudders, stills, slackens.

“Alright?” Sarah says breathlessly.

John gives a groan of relief, gratitude, utter exhaustion, and drags her down onto his chest. His cock slides free of her.

Sarah spills off him onto her back, her hands going to her groin. John gives another growl, this one rather more intent, and rolls onto his side to face her.

Her thighs are spread, her legs straightened, her toes pointed. The fingers of one hand hold the folds of her vulva open, the fingers of the other rub up and down rapidly over her clitoris.

“Anything I can do to help?” John says, his left hand skimming down her body.

Sarah’s already breathing in quick, high gasps, her body drawn taut and shivering.

“Put your – fingers - ” she gasps, “in – inside – oh - ”

John snarls, his hand skimming past hers, and sinks three fingers into her to the knuckles.

Sarah gives a sharp cry and convulses around him, her thighs clamping tightly around his hand. John drops his mouth to hers, half-covering her second, softer cry of pleasure. Sarah throws her arms around his neck, clinging to him as her body unravels into relaxation.

“Nice?” John murmurs into her hair.

“Lovely,” Sarah smiles against his chest.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

It’s morning, wan daylight filtering through the gauzy curtains. John wakes, to find himself alone in Sarah’s bed.

He sits up slowly, wipes his hand down his stubbled cheeks and chin, and pulls his tee shirt down over his stomach. He gets out of the bed and, naked below the waist, peers around until he spots his underwear on the floor beside the dresser. He moves that way, supporting himself with a hand on the bed, the closet door, the wall. He leans down laboriously, plucks his underwear up, and makes his way back to the foot of the bed to sit down and put them on.

He gets up again and, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, goes out of the bedroom.

Sarah is in the kitchenette, her back turned to him. She’s wearing a thin tee shirt and silky pajama pants; her hair is bundled into a haphazard knot on the nape of her neck.

John moves to her, silent on bare feet despite his rolling limp.

“H’lo,” he murmurs behind her, dipping his nose into the warm angle behind her ear.

“Hello,” Sarah says, dropping some piece of flatware into a dish and turning in the loose circle of his arms to face him. “Did I wake you?”

“Nmm, don’t think so,” John says.

“There’s coffee, or tea if you prefer,” Sarah says, looping an arm around his waist.

“Is the coffee metaphorical?” John asks.

“This batch is literal,” Sarah says archly, “but – do you have anything on today?”

“Not even trousers,” John says.

Sarah hums appreciatively and skims her hand down the muscled crest of his thigh.

“Vixen,” John murmurs.

Sarah’s phone buzzes on the countertop.

“Damn it,” she says, “I’d better - ”

John grimaces humorously and lets her go. Sarah lifts her phone to ear, watching John pick up a mug and poke experimentally at her coffee maker.

“Hello?” Sarah says. “Grace? Hello, what’s – oh my God, when?”

John stops, coffee mug in hand.

“I – yes, of course I’ll come,” Sarah says intently, glancing at John, who arranges his face to convey politely restrained concern. “I’ll be there in a few hours. I’ll see you then, alright? Bye.”

Sarah ends the call and drops her phone back on the countertop

“I’m sorry, my mother-in-law’s house was broken into during the night,” she says, her eyes wide. “She’s abroad – that was her housekeeper, Grace. She didn’t know who else to call.”

“Of course,” John says. “I’ll – get out of your way, you probably - ”

“John, she doesn’t think they took anything,” Sarah cuts in, “but they went through all Emma’s books and papers, and they ransacked James’s old room.”

John stills abruptly, every line of his face and body suddenly hard-edged.

“It’s a terrible imposition, I know,” Sarah says, “but - ”

“Of course I’ll go with you,” John says at once. “Give me an hour to go home and shave and - ”

“Thank you so much,” Sarah says on a shaky exhalation. “It’s - ”

“Where does she live?” John says with an insistent smile.

“Hindhead,” Sarah says.

“Surrey? Lovely,” John declares. “Nice drive, and we can have a late lunch somewhere down there. It’s my turn to buy.”

 

The house in Hindhead is a substantial Victorian villa, with some vague pretensions to Elizabethan style, mainly by way of undersized windows and oversized brick chimneys. It’s set in a large, rather grim garden of raked gravel and clipped rhododendrons. Sarah parks the car at the side of the house; she and John get out, and John retrieves his cane from the backseat.

The side door is opened by a middle-aged back woman wearing a tweed skirt and woolen twinset.

“Grace,” Sarah says, starting towards her.

The two women embrace, and then part as John joins them on the threshold.

“Grace, this is John Watson,” Sarah says. “He’s a colleague of mine.”

“And friend, I hope,” John says, switching his cane to his left hand and offering Grace his right.

“John knew James in Afghanistan,” Sarah says.

“You were a doctor there, too?” Grace asks, her voice warm and firm, her intonation and lengthened vowels declaring her Jamaican upbringing.

“Oh, no, no,” John smiles, “I was at the combat end of the business. James patched me up a couple of time, though.”

“He di’n’t leave you like that, did he?” Grace says, eyeing John’s cane with displeasure.

“No,” John says with a little gust of laughter. “This happened after James – um, I’m sure he would have done better.”

“Well, come on in an’ have a look,” Grace says to Sarah.

The three of them pass through a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway and up a flight of steep steps, to emerge in the wider, loftier space of the front hallway. The house interior is stolidly Victorian, with plenty of mahogany and slate, overlaid by a cursory but comfortable décor that could have been established anytime within the last eighty years.

“They pulled Emma’s desk in the morning room all apart,” Grace says, leading the way up the wide staircase, “and the bookcase in her room, but mostly they went to town on James’s things.”

“Are you alright?” Sarah asks.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Grace says with a flick of her hand. “I wasn’t here – I don’t live in, John – I came by this morning to pick up the post an’ tend to the plants, and found the place like this.”

“You called the police?” John asks.

“Of course,” Grace says, leading them down a hallway and opening a door. “They came an’ took some pictures, but with nothing missing an’ no damage done getting in, they’re not so bothered about it. They told me I could clean up. I didn’t feel right about being in James’s thing, though.”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Sarah murmurs.

Every drawer and shelf has been gutted. The floor and bed and desk are shrouded in papers and books. On the floor, university medical textbooks lie alongside paperback novels and several children’s picture books. Cardboard boxes disgorge a mess of conference programs, term papers, and old report letters, all the ephemera of boyhood and youth and manhood mixed together indiscriminately.

"Emma didn’t go through any of his things,” Grace says to Sarah. “She jus’ shut the door on it all. I don’t think she could stand to see it like this, but it isn’t my place to be it, either.”

“You were right to call me,” Sarah says. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll bring up some tea,” Grace says as she withdraws.

“Sorry, this is going to take a while,” Sarah says to John.

“Half as long if you let me help,” John says.

“You deserve a medal,” Sarah smiles.

“Oh, don’t worry, they gave me one already,” John grins.

A couple of hours later, the room has been restored to what passes for order, given the accretion of possessions from almost four decades of active, adventurous life.

“Good as new,” Sarah says, her tone simultaneously ironic and wistful.

John takes up his cane from where it’s leaning against the bed, and they go out onto the landing. Sarah’s phone buzzes in her purse. She takes it out, she and John still moving slowly towards the stairs.

“Hello? Hello, Sergeant Donovan,” Sarah says into her phone, raising her eyebrows at John. “Fine, thank you. Yes? Oh. Oh, I see – I see. Well, thank you for letting me know, of course. Goodbye.”

She ends the call and clasps her phone to her chest, frowning. They both start down the stairs slowly.

“Jonathan Small was released on bail last night,” Sarah says.

“What?” John scowls. “He was - ”

“Apparently he’s never been in trouble with the police before,” Sarah says, “and in view of the fact that he got back from an eighteen month deployment in Afghanistan just two days ago - ”

“ _Afghanistan_?” John echoes.

“Do you think it was him?” Sarah says, sinking down to sit on the second-to-lowest stair. “Do you think it was Small who broke in here?”

“Do you think it wasn’t?” John counters.

“Oh my God,” Sarah says distantly, and then, looking up at John intently, “ _why_? What does he _want_?”

“This house, your flat,” John says. “James’s widow, James’s mother – Small’s looking for something _James_ had.”

“But _what_?” Sarah implores.

“Are there any of James’s possessions somewhere else?” John asks, his eyes dark and intent. “A holiday home maybe, or - ”

Sarah already shaking her head when she stops, her eyes widening.

“His – the pack he was carrying when he – it’s at the Corps’ museum,” she says, tucking and re-tucking her hair behind her ear. “They asked if they could – they don’t lose a Medical Officer very – so, of course, I said yes.”

“Is it on display?” John asks.

“No, not yet, they’re just storing it for now,” Sarah says.

“Did you go through it?” John asks.

“No, I just sent it straight on to the museum,” Sarah says, “but – they emailed me an inventory after they opened it.”

She looks down, tapping at her phone. John eases himself down onto the step beside her, and sets his cane at his side. Sarah hands him her phone, then leans her head closer to his, and they both look at the list.

“His laptop – do you think it’s something on his laptop?” Sarah asks after a few seconds.

“It’s in a military-spec case, it wouldn’t have fit among some of the books and papers Small pulled out,” John says, shaking his head. “It’s got to be something thinner and - ”

Sarah looks down at the list again with sharpened eyes.

“A paperback book, and two notebooks,” John says.

Sarah frowns, uncomprehending.

“Those are the only things that make sense in terms of size, and the way Small concentrated on papers and books in the break-ins,” John says. “The museum’s just over in Mytchett, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sarah nods.

“We should have some lunch, and you should go back to town,” John says.

“What about you?” Sarah asks.

“I think I’ll run over to Mytchett for the afternoon,” John says.

“You’re not going without me,” Sarah says emphatically.

“It’s okay,” John says, “you don’t have to - ”

“He was my husband,” Sarah cuts in. “Apart from anything else, his personal effects are legally my property. I’ll have a much easier time getting access to them than you will.”

“Yeah, alright,” John says with a crooked smile. “We’ll both go.”

 

The barracks at Mytchett is an unimpressive collection of plain red-brick buildings, reminiscent of a comprehensive school or community center – all earnest good intentions, at the expense of any architectural subtlety. Inside the entryway, a tasteful display of regimental china, crystal, and silver surrounds a tab-fronted officer’s coat on a tailor’s dummy. In the museum beyond, grizzly tableaus of medical personnel tending injured soldiers are interspersed with glass cases of maps and paintings and medical equipment in time-worn leather cases.

A young corporal leads Sarah and John through an unremarkable hallway and up some uncarpeted stairs. He shows them into a small sitting room, as blandly modern as the rest of the building, but furnished with warm, worn oak and velvet clearly brought from somewhere older and more storied. The inner door opens, and a tall, broadly built officer with dark wavy hair and a lot of jaw comes out.

“Doctor Sawyer,” he says, shaking Sarah’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Major Preston,” Sarah says pleasantly. “This is Doctor Watson - ”

“Captain, Second Battalion RRF, retired,” John says as he and Preston shake hands.

“Second, eh?” Preston says, looking at John’s cane. “You fellows had it pretty hot there, last autumn. Was that you?”

“Ah, no, sir,” John says blandly. “I didn’t get hurt until this summer.”

“Well, that’s the way of it,” Preston says, “always plenty to go round.”

“It’s very kind of you to see us at such short notice,” Sarah says, as Preston gestures for them to sit down.

“The kindness is all yours,” Preston says. “We’re honored to be entrusted with some of your late husband’s effects; they of course remain your property, to do with as you like.”

“What I’d like just now is to see them, if I may,” Sarah says. “To – examine them. I didn’t, at the time.”

“Of course,” Preston says gravely, “of course. Stay here and I’ll have the corporal bring them to you.”

“Oh, we didn’t mean to put you out of - ” Sarah begins, as Preston moves to the outer door.

“Not a bit,” Preston cuts in. “You’ll want some privacy, and the armory’s full of boy scouts.”

He leaves, and a few minutes later the corporal returns, carrying a pale camouflage backpack in a transparent plastic cover.

“Here you are, ma’am,” he says, setting it down on the table. “Take your time – I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” Sarah says.

The corporal withdraws, closing the door behind him; Sarah and John converge on the table.

“You do it,” Sarah murmurs.

John unzips the plastic cover and draws out the backpack. His nostrils flare, assaulted by the well-remembered smell of sun-bleaching and sweat and breeze-borne dirt. His hand splays over the rough cloth, his touch almost caressing.

Sarah exhales softly beside him. John’s fingers move to the clasps on the pack’s outer pockets, springing them open. He extracts the contents, placing them in piles on the table. A water bottle, several granola bars. A wash-bag and shaving kit, a packet of wet-wipes, a couple of clean tee-shirts, underwear, and socks. A laptop, a paperback book, and two notebooks: one a black moleskin held closed by an elastic loop, the other slightly larger and thinner, bound in fine, tan leather and embossed with the initials “ _J.B.S_ ”.

John fans through the pages of the paperback, but finds nothing between them. He picks up the black moleskin and opens it; there’s a ragged edge where the front pages have been torn out. The following few pages carry some brief, very quotidian lists with items like _laundry_ and _foot powder_ crossed out. The rest of the pages are blank.

“James wasn’t really a note-maker,” Sarah says, “and he certainly never kept a journal.”

“This is a nice notebook for someone who didn’t make notes,” John says, putting the moleskin down and picking up the leather bound notebook instead.

He flips the cover open. Sarah gives a soft _oh_ of surprise and pleasure.

The notebook’s pages are unlined, slightly textured paper. Each of the first dozen or so pages bears a skillful little landscape sketch: deft, deliberate pencil lines and vivid, fluent washes of watercolor.

“That’s Kandahar Airfield,” John murmurs. “That’s the Arghandab Valley, Lashkar-Gah’s on the other side of those peaks.”

“I don’t understand,” Sarah says.

“Yeah, they’re good but they’re not worth housebreaking for,” John says, still lingering over the last sketch: the crumbling façade of a fortified house, with a graceful sapling growing in the arched entryway, and flat fields stretching out all around it.

“That’s not what I mean,” Sarah says.

John looks up from the notebook, meeting her perplexed frown.

“I never saw James draw, or paint, anything, ever,” she says. “His things – his old room – there weren’t any drawings or paintings, not even unused sketch books or drawing paper, no paints or brushes. Why would he keep something like this a secret?”

John frowns darkly, his mouth narrowed. He takes his phone from his pocket and gestures at the notebook with it.

“Do you mind?” he says.

“No, of course not,” Sarah says.

She puts the notebook flat on the table, and holds each page flat while John takes photographs each sketch. When he’s done, he returns the pack’s contents to its pockets, tucking the leather-bound notebook away last.

“If Small hasn’t found what he’s looking for,” Sarah says as John slides the pack back into its plastic cover, “does that mean he’s going to try again?”

“Maybe he’ll realize he was mistaken, that James never had whatever it is Small’s looking for,” John says mildly. “Maybe he’ll give up.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?” Sarah asks.

“Is it working?” John counters.

“Not as well as going out to dinner,” Sarah says with a slightly unsteady smile, “and not sleeping alone tonight.”

“Alright,” John smiles, “I can arrange that.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

John leans his cane against the corner of his desk, sits down, and takes out his laptop. He also opens a lower drawer of the desk, shifts the contents about, and extracts a large, folded map.

He switches his laptop on, and then opens out the expansive wings of the map. He taps and swipes his phone, and then the touchpad of his laptop; his photographs of the landscape sketches appear on the laptop screen. He plucks a pencil from under the map, peers at the familiar arrangement of straights and curves and shaded contours, and plants his elbow firmly on Kabul.

He studies the first sketch for a moment, and then spends several more minutes on an image search. There’s no shortage of material – a hundred thousand troops had arrived at Kandahar airfield in the previous twelve months, and almost all had been moved to photograph the scenery and display it online for the edification of the people back home. John is quickly able to identify the exact juxtaposition of flat ground, low hills, and prefabricated service buildings. He pencils a careful spot on the periphery of the airfield, and extends the spot into an arrowhead to indicate the direction of the view depicted in the sketch.

The second sketch is even easier. John has travelled up and down the Arghandab Valley often enough that each one of the sudden, serrated mountains rising from the flat valley floor is instantly recognizable to him. He knows their Pashto names, and after a few minutes of image searching and some careful examination of contour lines on the map, he’s able to place another pencil spot north-east of Lashkar-Gah, and extend the arrowhead off in a different direction from the first.

He frowns, contemplating the two uncoordinated arrows. He passes on to the next picture: a great prow-shaped rock, looming above a dirt road on a gentle hillside. John tightens his fist, pressing the pad of his thumb hard against the shaft of his pencil. He scowls at the image on the scene for long minutes, his two index fingers poised over the keys.

_rock Afghanistan_

_big rock Afghanistan_

_interesting rock Afghanistan_

The map yields all too many hillsides, but rocks, even big and interesting ones, are not considered worthy of notation. John traces a line extending each arrowhead outwards, and searches again: still too many hillsides, and not enough information to discern among them. He switches to satellite images, but at close quarters too much of Kandahar province defaults to the featureless tan and gray pixilation of security-screened terrain.

John shoves his laptop away in disgust, and gathers the map to him. He stares at the two spots and arrowheads, willing himself to see something other than the obvious. He puts his index fingers over the spots, and stares at the arrowheads, pointing off in no particular relation to each other. He shifts his fingers slightly, covering the arrowheads and staring at the spots. He frowns. He picks up his pencil, flicks it round, and erases the arrowheads. He opens a desk drawer and pulls out some bit of business correspondence still in its envelope, and uses the long edge of the envelope to draw a straight line between the two spots, extending it out in either direction.

He draws his laptop back to him and clicks through to the very last sketch: the broken façade of an old house, with a graceful sapling growing in the arched entryway, and golden fields stretching out on all sides around it.

John considers the pencil line as it extents north-east from Kandahar: it lies entirely over the densely coiled contours of the Sulaiman Mountains. He flicks his pencil over and erases the line back to Kandahar Airfield. Where the line extends south-west from the Arghandab Valley, it passes into the broad, open contours of Helmand. John traces this portion of line again, and again, pulling his lower lip between his teeth.

He clicks back to the sketch of the rock above the hillside road, and peers at the line on the map again. John knows firsthand how few of the dirt roads in the region are mapped, but he goes back to the satellite views, picking over the ground step by virtual step along the line he’s charted. It’s fruitless though; still too much pixelated terrain, and not enough street-level views of the open country on the border of Helmand and Nimruz provinces.

John blows his breath out noisily, throws his pencil at the wall, and flips the map up over his laptop.

After a few seconds, he tosses it out of the way again. He goes to an Army news website, and scrolls down to the section on returning forces. The most recent headline reads, Second Battalion, The Princess of Wales Royal Regiment returns to London.

He picks his phone up and places a call. He gets up from his desk as he waits for an answer.

“Afternoon – Personnel Records, thank you,” he says crisply. “Hello? This is Captain Watson, RRF. I need to speak directly to Captain Leonard. No, Corporal, you may not ask what it’s in connection with, just get him on the phone.”

There’s a second’s pause, and John’s expression shifts from cool irritation to wolfish amusement.

“George Leonard, you worthless bastard,” he says. “It’s John Watson. Yes. Yes, you heard true. A few weeks – well I’m ringing you now, aren’t I?”

John limps, caneless, to the closet and opens it.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” he says into the phone. “I’m up and around now, I’m keen to get out a bit more. In fact, I was hoping you could do me a favor in that line. There’s a bloke who did me a solid favor just before I got clipped – Jonathan Small? Second, Princess of Wales? His lot just got back, I thought I’d look him up and buy him the pint I owe him, but I don’t know where he’s from or - ”

John reaches into the back of the closet and pulls out a black suit under a transparent plastic cover.

“You can? You’re a bloody superstar, George,” he says, rifling through the meager selection of ties on the door of the closet before pulling free a plain black silk knit. “Streatham? That’s practically down the road from me. I’ll go round and stick a note under his door. You’re a prince, George; I owe you a pint now, too. Bet your life on it. Right, thanks again, mate.”

John ends the call and drops his phone back on the desk. He opens the upper drawer, takes out his pistol, and tucks it into the back of his jeans.

 

The overcast afternoon has given way to an overcast and rapidly darkening evening.

John is walking along a narrow street of terraced houses. He approaches one front door, glancing up and down the street before he knocks. The door, apparently unlatched, opens slightly. John scowls dubiously, but pushes the door a little farther ajar.

“Hallo? Anybody home?” he calls experimentally.

There’s no response. John opens the door the rest of way, and steps over the threshold.

“Small?” John says.

Still no response.

John sets his cane against the wall, sweeps the back of his jacket aside, and pulls out his pistol. He clasps it two-handed, holding it at chest height in front of him, and shuffles slowly down the hallway. His eyes skim from side to side, primed for any hint of movement, and his ears strain for a sound closer by than the occasional passing of a car.

John stops short of the nearest door, which is standing wide open. He turns side on, to present the narrowest target possible, and steps into the doorway. The small sitting room is commonplace, homely except for the man stretched out, facedown, on the floor.

“ _Shit_ ,” John breaths.

John goes down onto his left knee with grimacing difficulty. He presses his fingers to the side of the man’s neck, confirming what’s already obvious from the small, bloody hole in the back of the skull.

John takes hold of the corpse’s shoulder, grunting with exertion and lack of leverage, he hauls it over onto its back. Small made some effort to obscure his face when he broke into Sarah’s flat, but John got some impression of him anyway, and a better look at the photograph on the driver’s license that Sally showed to Sarah; John has no difficulty recognizing him.

John’s gaze lifts, and catches on a white envelope propped up on the mantelpiece. The inscription reads _Missus Sarah Sawyer_ , written a strikingly clear, even hand.

John’s breath huffs out, hard. He hauls himself upright again with a hand on the corner of the table, and steps around the body on the floor. He picks the envelope up, still staring at the inscription.

The envelope is light, but there’s something inside, small and slightly raised and shaking loosely. John turns the envelope over and rips the flap, then tips the envelope to empty the contents into his palm.

It’s a roughly modelled leaf, made of gold; it’s about an inch long, and half as wide, with incised lines to depict the veining. A small integral loop at either end suggests it was intended to be one of a series, strung together to make a strand.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John says very softly.

He notices a piece of notepaper still caught inside the envelope. He pulls it out; it’s torn along one edge, clearly the remnant of a full sheet. _My sincere apologies for the distress caused to you by Lt. Small,_ it reads.

He stuffs the paper and leaf back into the envelope, and the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket. He goes back out into the hallway, tucking his pistol into the back of his jeans again, and takes up his cane. He goes out of the house door and pulls it closed behind him, leaving it unlatched as he found it. He looks up and down the street; there’s a large, dark sedan car approaching from his right.

He turns left, and starts walking away from the house as briskly as his limp allows. The car passes him from behind, and in to the curb a little way ahead. John keeps walking.

The driver gets out. He’s dressed in a dark gray suit and tie over a white shirt, equally suggestive of a chauffeur’s livery and a security guard’s uniform; he opens the nearside rear door, but no one gets out.

John’s close enough to see that there’s only one person in the back of the car, sitting on the side farthest from the open door. He draws level with the car, casting a sidelong glance into the backseat.

The passenger is a young woman, with long waves of glossy chestnut hair framing her remarkably beautiful little face. She’s wearing a tightly fitted pinstripe coat dress, with a neckline low enough to display a cut emerald pendant and an expanse of flawless, pale cleavage. She has a fur stole in her lap, one small hand nested in the long black strands.

“Get in the car, Captain Watson,” she says without a hint of rancor.

John glances at the driver, who’s studiously avoiding his gaze.

“Now, Captain Watson,” the young woman says.

John looks back at her, to see that she’s swept the fur out of her lap to reveal her other hand aiming a pistol with a suppressor attached. He grimaces, but he ducks his head and gets into the backseat beside her, drawing his cane in after him.

“Call me John,” he says, as the driver shuts the door on him, and gets back into the car. “And I’ll call you - ”

He lifts his eyebrows questioningly.

“Umm – Anthea,” she says, clearly on a whim.

She lifts a perfectly manicured hand to her left ear.

“I have Captain Watson,” she says, “we’re on our way.”

“Is there any point in my asking, on our way to where?” John says conversationally.

“No point at all, _John_ ,” Anthea says with an indulgent curl of her mouth.

“Right,” John says. “Okay.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

The car turns off street-level and goes down a steep ramp, into a large, mostly empty space lit by harsh fluorescence and shadowed by damp and darkness. There’s another car, a gleaming black Bentley, parked in the far corner. Nearby, a tall and thin and impeccably suited man leans nonchalantly on his cane-handled umbrella.

“He’ll see you now,” Anthea says to John with a brief, impersonal smile as their car pulls up and the driver gets out.

John scowls, but he takes up his cane without hesitation. The driver opens the car door, and John heaves himself gracelessly out and onto his feet. John lifts his chin, sets his jaw, and stumps his way across the expanse of puddled concrete.

“Captain John Watson,” Mycroft says, enunciating with great clarity.

“Yeah, I already know my name,” John says as he glances around. “Any chance you’re going to tell me yours?”

“Holmes,” Mycroft says with obvious satisfaction. “I am Mycroft Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you, Mycroft,” John says. “What’s this about?”

“What was your relationship with Jonathan Small?” Mycroft asks, his voice and eyes suddenly glacial.

“I – I didn’t have one,” John frowns. “I met him – yesterday.”

“And since then, you’ve disarmed him, had him arrested, extracted his address from the Army Records Office, and now you’ve turned up at the scene of his murder,” Mycroft says. “A murder, I notice, you did not feel moved to report to the police. Is this what’s meant by _brothers in arms_? I suppose a civilian like myself can’t hope to understand the bonds among you all.”

“I didn’t kill Jonathan Small,” John says evenly.

“Quite,” Mycroft says with a quick, cold smile. “We’ve had the man who did under close surveillance for some time. He was part of an illegal conspiracy in Afghanistan; we’ve been waiting for him to make contact with an unknown co-conspirator. He led us to Small; we intended to allow the meeting to proceed without interference, and then take Small in for questioning. The meeting proved to shorter and rather more – conclusive, than we had anticipated.”

“If you were following the killer, why didn’t you apprehend him?” John asks.

“It doesn’t serve our purposes,” Mycroft says sweetly. “Turning him over to the police would produce a stalemate. There’s no point in questioning him, he’s bound to be highly – resistant.”

“So you just let him go,” John says.

“We let him _run_ ,” Mycroft corrects. “We’re watching him very closely. He hasn’t left his home in almost a year; he came up to London to kill Small as soon as Small returned to England. The game, as my father used to say, is clearly afoot.”

“You think there’s another co-conspirator,” John says.

“Sarah Sawyer,” Mycroft says blandly.

“ _What_?” John snaps.

“You were in her apartment when Small broke in,” Mycroft says. “Was that by prior arrangement with him?”

“He pulled a gun on me and I got him arrested,” John protests. “Why would either of us do that if we were in on it together?”

“No honor among thieves,” Mycroft grimaces.

John’s eyes narrow, but Mycroft is momentarily distracted by Anthea approaching and handing him a Blackberry. Mycroft looks at the device for a moment, one eyebrow raised, before returning his attention to John.

“Your internet history,” Mycroft says in answer to John’s unvoiced question. “Very – suggestive.”

John’s lip curls disdainfully.

“From _today_ ,” Mycroft clarifies. “Kandahar Airfield, the Arghandab Valley, and two hundred and twelve satellite image searches of the border of Helmand and Nimruz provinces. What are you looking for, Captain Watson?”

“Nothing,” John says reflexively, and then, “memories – I served there.”

“You served in a perfectly straight line extending from Kandahar airfield, through the Arghandab and Helmand to Nimruz,” Mycroft says. “Remarkable.”

John shifts his weight on his cane slightly, settling in.

“Perhaps we should consider taking _you_ in for questioning,” Mycroft says.

John tilts his head slightly, though his eyes remain riveted to Mycroft’s.

“Or perhaps we should just turn you over to the police,” Mycroft says, his voice edged. “You _were_ at the scene of a fatal shooting, in possession of an illegally held firearm. You removed evidence.”

“I’m not going to be any more forthcoming under questioning, or any more informative in police custody, than Small’s killer,” John says.

“Then perhaps we should take the matter up with Doctor Sawyer,” Mycroft says.

John’s indifference curdles into seething anger.

“What do you _want_?” he grimaces.

“I want you to know that we’re watching you,” Mycroft says, his smile viperous. “We’re letting you _run_ , but we’re watching very closely.”

“Right,” John says with a slight jerk of his head. “ _Okay_.”

Mycroft glances a parting at Anthea, swings his umbrella up onto his shoulder, and saunters away.

“I’m to take you home,” Anthea says, behind John.

“I – don’t want to go home,” John says. “Take me to Doctor Sawyer’s.”

 

It’s fully dark by the time John climbs the steps to the front door of Sarah’s apartment building and presses the buzzer.

“Sarah, it’s me, John,” he says.

“John – come up,” Sarah answers, and the door buzzes open.

John comes into the hallway and starts up the stairs. Sarah appears on the landing and looks down over the bannister.

Her hair is in loose waves around her face, and she’s wearing a simple, sleeveless black dress with a draped neckline low enough to reveal the pale, faintly gold-speckled skin of her collarbones and cleavage.

“What happened?” she says. “I was waiting for you.”

“Yeah, sorry,” John says as he reaches the top of the stairs. “I got – sidetracked.”

“John, what’s happened?” Sarah says more intently, as she parses the glitter in his eyes and the coiled energy of his posture. “ _Are you alright?_ ”

“I’m fine,” John murmurs, already moving into her space, hooking his arm around her waist and bringing his mouth to hers.

Sarah gasps under his parted lips, bending back under the insistent press of his kiss, and clutches at his shoulder. John abruptly breaks away from her lips, pulls her even tighter, and mouths at her neck just below her ear.

“Oh my God,” Sarah says breathlessly, as John sleeks one greedy hand down her thigh and then back up under the hem of her dress. “John – _John_.”

John manages to wrench his head up, staring at her with cindered eyes and softly snarling lips.

“Oh my God,” Sarah says again. “ _Come inside_.”

She catches John’s wrist and twists away, more or less pulling him through the open door of the flat. John drops his cane the second he crosses the threshold; he and Sarah grab each other again even as he tries to push the door closed. They lurch, off-balanced, and the door latches under the impact of their combined weight.

John twists, pinning Sarah against the closed door. He clasps her face in both hands and drops open-mouthed kisses on her eyelids and lips and the bridge of her nose. Sarah shoves his open jacket off his shoulders. John takes his hands from just long enough to free himself from his jacket sleeves. His jacket falls to the floor. He catches Sarah at the nape of her neck and tugs her in to another hard kiss, breathless and wet and edged with teeth.

Sarah arches away from the door, pressing her stomach against the hard ridge of John’s erection. She runs both hands down his back and starts clawing his sweater up from his waist.

Her fingers encounter the cool, slick metal of the pistol still tucked into the back of his jeans.

“Oh my God, _John_ ,” she gasps against his mouth.

“Sorry,” John says hurriedly, reaching back to strip the gun from behind his waist.

He pulls away a bit, leaving Sarah staring in wide-eyed, ravenous dismay as he snaps the slide, checks the chamber, and smacks the pistol down on the little curio shelf next to the door. He looks back at Sarah, the slightest suggestion of a question in his eyes, and her breath comes out a one sharp snap as she grabs him by the front of his sweater and yanks him in again.

She rifles the front of his jeans, tearing his belt open and then tugging ruthlessly at his fly-buttons. John yanks Sarah’s dress up her thighs, and discovers the incendiary combination of stocking tops and soft, bare inner thighs. His breath hacks out as if he’s been hit. He thrusts his arm around Sarah’s waist and shoves her up the door. Sarah snakes her arms around his neck, clinging to him as he lifts her onto the balls of her stockinged feet. John cants his hips and shoves again.

“Ah _fuck_ ,” he gasps as his left shoulder locks and his right knee yields.

He tightens his grip on Sarah, controlling her drop back down onto her heels with the strength of his right arm.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Shh,” Sarah breathes, her eyes dark and drugged with arousal. “Bed – _take me to bed_.”

John kisses her, an open-mouthed thrust of tongue that makes her whimper low in her throat before she gathers enough resolve to push him off, take hold of his wrists, and draw him after her into the open doorway of the bedroom.

They stumble against the door jab and kiss again, John clasping Sarah’s face in both hands, Sarah pulling John’s sweater and shirt and tee shirt up at the front and sweeping both hands down the hard plane of his stomach into the half-open fly of his jeans.

“ _Bed_ ,” John says, and they manage to unwind themselves enough to stumble shuffle kiss their way farther into the bedroom.

Sarah feels the side of the bed behind her and lets herself fold, sitting down and then unravelling onto her back. John stays standing to strip his sweater off over his head and then wrench his shirt buttons open and bundle his shirt off, leaving him in just his tee shirt.

Sarah arches up, using both hands to pull her dress up around her hips again. John gives a liquid snarl of pure lust as he sees, properly, the juxtaposition of sheer black stockings, cream silk underwear, and ivory skin. Sarah spreads her thighs and reaches out to him with both hands, but John shakes his head.

“Move up,” he says, jerking his chin.

Sarah, frowning, wriggles farther away from him. Her frown turns to vivid-eyed anticipation and she spreads her thighs wider as John eases down onto his stomach on the bed.

John scoops his right arm under Sarah’s stockinged leg, lifts it, and tucks his right shoulder into the crook of her knee.

“Oh my God,” Sarah gasps as John dips his head and exhales open-mouthed against the already dampened crotch of her underwear.

Sarah bucks, and John’s hands tighten on her bare hips. He sticks his tongue out, stiffening it, and flicks it over the same section of cloth. Sarah whimpers and squirms impatiently.

“Show me,” John grins. “Show me where you want to be kissed.”

Sarah gives an indignant little squeak and reaches down to pull her underwear to one side, uncovering herself. John inhales hard. Sarah strains her thighs apart, shivering in anticipation.

John licks soft-tongued right over her opening. Sarah sobs her breath in, her heel drawing up on John’s shoulder blade. John hums appreciatively, and Sarah writhes against the vibration. He pushes his tongue into her, and she gasps, holding herself to stillness as his tongue curls and thrusts.

Sarah shifts, squirms, brushes the fingers of her free hand against John’s cheek to summon his attention. He withdraws his tongue and lifts his head slightly.

Sarah uses the fingers of both hands to part the plump folds of her vulva and expose her clitoris.

"Here,” she says in high, breathless whine. “Please, _here_.”

 John slips his thumb down along her folds, and sinks it into the wet, heated opening even as he covers the peak of her clitoris with his mouth. Sarah squirms, digging her heel into John’s back. John starts to suck softly, rocking his thumb inside her with same pulsing rhythm.

 “Oh Christ,” Sarah gasps.

John slips his thumb free and replaces it with two curled fingers. Sarah’s breathing gets more broken as he thrusts inside her and flickers the tip of his tongue over the stiffening peak of her clitoris.

She thrashes, but when he starts to suck again she’s stricken, pinned under the pleasure of his mouth. Her cries get sharper, wilder. The minutes unwind, John patiently building the charge along her nerves.

Sarah whiplashes, her knees coming up and her head slamming down into the mattress as she cries out, a raw, guttural shout of relief.

John pulls up onto his knees, already dragging Sarah’s underwear down her legs. She’s still shaking and gasping for breath as she kicks free of the small, sodden garment. John throws it away and shuffles his already unbuttoned jeans and his underwear down his hips. Sarah tries to gather herself into a sit, but he presses a hand to her hip.

“Stay there,” he says, his voice thick and low. “On your side.”

Sarah rolls half away from him under his guiding push on her hip.

“Oh – yes,” she says breathlessly, as he stretches out behind her.

John slips his right arm under her neck, winds it round her shoulders, and slips his hand brazenly into her neckline and then into her bra cup to grip her breast. Sarah feels the stiff, satiny push of his cock against the back of her thigh. She draws her uppermost leg in, clasping her knee, to give him better access. John shifts, snarling in frustration against her ear. She pushes back, he hooks his hips, the angle is abruptly optimal and the head of his cock slides into her.

“Oh yes,” Sarah says, thrusting back to meet him.

John surges against her, driving himself deep enough to make her gasp again.

“Alright?” he asks.

Sarah can’t manage more than a few breathy whimpers, but she presses back against John’s body in affirmation. He starts to churn his hips slowly, and finger her nipple inside her bra cup.

“Oh my God,” Sarah says shakily.

John’s thrusts turn sharper and shorter. Sarah turns her head, open mouthed, and John presses a messy, jerking kiss to the corner of her lips. He reaches down, grips her bare thigh, and then slides his hand inwards. His fingers brush her stomach, down the hair of her pubis. He hooks one fingertip into the cleft of her vulva. Sarah jolts, cries out as his fingertip slides wetly over her clitoris.

“Oh my God, yes,” she urges.

She grabs his wrist, pushing, and he uses two or three fingers to part her vulva and cover her clitoris. Sarah rocks her hips forwards to rub herself on his firm, callused fingers, and back to meet the deep, sounding thrust of his cock.

“Lovely,” John is whispering, his arms tightening on her and his hips jerking, “lovely, you’re lovely … ”

Sarah catches her breath sharply, her body coiling inside the constriction of his arms. She clamps her thighs around his hand, but John yanks it free.

“Oh no no no no,” she gasps, left quivering on the edge of the precipice and then, as she realizes John’s increasingly ruthless thrusts aren’t just keeping her there but are, particle by slow particle of pleasure, drawing her inexorably towards her fall, “oh yes, _yes_.”

Her body spins tight as a drawn bowstring, clamping down on John’s thrusts so fiercely that he groans. Sarah comes, pleasure tearing a out of her in a shocked scream. John is growling, grunting, gasping against her ear, pressing shaking, hard kisses into her hair and onto her temple and cheek.

“Oh my God,” Sarah pants. “Oh. My. God.”

“Yeah,” John says hoarsely, falling away from her onto his back. “Absolutely.”

 

It’s a little after midnight. John and Sarah are sitting at the small table in the kitchenette, John in his jeans and tee shirt, Sarah in a silky, peach colored robe. There’s a sheet of paper under John’s left hand, and he’s fiddling with a pen. In the center of the table lie John’s pistol, and the envelope, note, and golden leaf from Small’s mantelpiece.

“I don’t understand,” Sarah scowls. “Why is this _happening_ to me?”

“Is it – is it possible James was involved in something – not quite above board, in Afghanistan?” John asks gently.

“No,” Sarah says at once, and then even more emphatically, “ _no._ James lived to follow the rules. He always prided himself on doing the proper thing.”

“Right, of course,” John grimaces apologetically. “It was just - ”

He stops, his attention caught by the paper under his hand. On it he has written two names, and then distractedly traced and retraces the first letter of each forename and surname.

 

 **_J_ ** _onathan **S** mall_

 **_J_ ** _ames **S** awyer_

 

John pulls his phone out of his hip pocket.

“What was James’s middle name?” he asks sharply.

“Brendan, why?” Sarah says.

 _lt jonathan small_ , John types, _sec battalion princess wales -_

He taps on the link offered for the regiment’s website and gets kicked to the list of men just returned from deployment. He scrolls down the list, eyes flicking intently.

 

_Lt. Jonathan Gerard Small_

 

“Damn it. I thought – James and Small had the same initials – first and last, anyway,” John says. “I thought – what if the notebook didn’t belong to James? What if it belonged to Small, and he wanted it back?”

“ _Of course_ ,” Sarah says in sudden realization. “The notebook didn’t belong to James – that’s why I never saw him draw or paint, it’s why there were no other drawings, and no art supplies among his things.”

“But the middle initial doesn’t match,” John protests. “The notebook was monogrammed JSM, and Small’s middle initial was G.”

Sarah tosses her head dismissively.

“Just because it didn’t belong to Small doesn’t mean it had to belong to James,” she says. “You said the man in the warehouse – Holmes? You said Holmes believes there was another co-conspirator.”

“Yeah but he thinks it’s _me_ ,” John says.

“Well, he’s wrong,” Sarah says with a slight, crooked curl of her mouth.

“Are you sure about that?” John smiles.

“Absolutely sure,” Sarah says archly. “Only _one_ of _your_ initials matches.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

The broad, pale portico front of the National Antiquities Museum is almost deserted at opening time. John and Sarah go up the wide stone steps into the marble columned entrance hall, and then up a flight of steep stairs and between two hawk-headed lions guarding the Near Eastern Antiquities wing.

“We’re here to see Doctor Yao,” John says to the uniformed security guard just arriving at his station inside the door.

“Straight down the back there,” the guard says, gesturing through the wing’s galleried rooms.

John and Sarah make their way past glass cases of gold and iron and clay, past the long-ago first sprouting seeds of great civilizations, to where a velvet rope on two brass stanchions discourages entrance through a half-open door marked _Employees Only_.

“Hello?” John says, rapping his knuckles on the door as he pushes it farther open.

A young Chinese woman, wearing a tulip-printed cheongsam, is sitting at a work bench, brushing the dust gently from some shard of ancient clay. She looks up at John’s call; she’s remarkably lovely, her graceful features framed by smooth dark hair drawn back in a shining wing on each side of her face.

“Doctor Yao?” John asks as he and Sarah approach. “I’m John Watson – I emailed you last night?”

“Soo-Lin, please,” Soo-Lin smiles, slipping off her stool and shaking hands with him.

“And this is Sarah Sawyer,” John says as the two women shake hands.

“You have something you want me to look at,” Soo-Lin says to Sarah.

“Yes,” Sarah says, extracting a small white cardstock box from her coat pocket.

Soo-Lin takes the box with a smile of polite interest. She slips the lid off, and removes the puff of white cotton covering the contents.

“ _Oh_ ,” she gasps, her eyes widening in utter delight as she parses the golden lid lying on another layer of cotton.

Sarah darts an intense glance at John, who quirks an eyebrow in response.

“This is _beautiful_ ,” Soo-Lin says, lifting the leaf reverently between finger and thumb.

She angles the workbench lamp, and the leaf blazes brightly in her hand.

“The gold is very pure,” Soo-Lin says, “poured in a loose sand mold, and the veins incised while the gold was still soft. This kind of thing was made in Persia – Iran, now – and traded all over the Medieval world.”

“It’s old?” Sarah asks.

“Maybe a thousand years,” Soo-Lin says, turning the leaf over to reveal the delicately molded central vein on the underside.

“Oh my God, I had no idea,” Sarah says.

Soo-Lin glances up at John, and sees his thinly restrained satisfaction.

“Not many people could recognize the work well enough to bring it to the right department,” she says to him. “Are you an antiquarian?”

“No, I’m – I was a soldier, in that part of the world,” John says. “We – morning briefing often included pictures of things that had been looted. So, that, and – circumstances.”

“I see,” Soo-Lin says.

“It looks like it’s part of something bigger,” John says, gesturing to the loop at either end of the leaf. “A necklace?”

Soo-Lin shakes her head.

“Such detail – this is superior work,” she says. “It belonged to a very large, very important piece, I think. Let me show you.”

She leads John and Sarah out of the workroom and back into the display area of the wing. She brings them to a large glass case in a dark corner, the contents dramatically spot lit against black velvet: a mannequin bust, wearing a rectangular mask of gray gauze molded to cover its forehead, eyes, and most of its nose. Strands of gray plastic beads on clear thread fall from the sides of the mask, sweeping back to drape at the base of the mannequin’s neck. At the front of the mask, gray plastic leaves linked together in strands fall in a deep curve onto the mannequin’s chest. A few sections of glittering, incised gold are positioned on the gauze mask – two corners, the curve over the bridge of the nose, and a the area above one eye opening – and here and there a few delicately pierced gold beads, and half a dozen golden leaves, a littler smaller and less finely marked than Sarah’s one.

“Large pieces rarely survive intact,” Soo-Lin says softly. “Looters break them up to sell as small, unremarkable lots, or just melt them down entirely. This reconstruction is one of the more complete ones outside the region of origin.”

“What about inside the region of origin?” John says.

“The Khimar-Aisha,” Soo-Lin says at once. “Aisha’s Veil – the name’s inaccurate, though; it’s several hundred years older than Islam. It’s the same basic design as this reconstruction, but it’s completely intact. It belongs to Kabul University.”

“So it’s still in Afghanistan,” John frowns.

“No,” Soo-Lin says, “the Afghans handed it over to the British government for safe-keeping after the university was bombed about a year ago.”

“We should go and see it,” Sarah says to John.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Soo-Lin says. “It’s not on public display – the government’s even refusing requests for access from academics like me.”

“That’s a bit mean-spirited of them,” John says. “I mean, with it being kept safe at the taxpayers’ expense.”

“That’s exactly the point I keep making to the Foreign Office,” Soo-Lin smiles.

She returns the leaf, lying on its bed of cotton in the little white box, to Sarah.

“Thank you very much for showing it to me,” Soo-Lin says. “It is very lovely.”

 

John and Sarah come down the museum’s front steps, Sarah deliberately slowing to match John progress with his cane.

“I can’t keep it,” she says.

John glances at her, and sees that she’s taken the little box of her pocket again.

“You heard what Doctor Yao said,” she goes on, “about looters breaking things up to sell. And it came to me from a _killer_. I don’t understand how James was involved in all this – I don’t believe James _was_ involved, but I know I was never meant to have this.”

John clasps his hand around hers, so that they’re both holding the box. He’s drawing breath to speak, when his gaze jumps, snags on a large, dark sedan car parked directly under a _NO STOPPING AT ANY TIME_ sign. The gray-suited driver is lounging against his door; he nods fractionally in acknowledgment of John’s stare.

“You go home,” John says to Sarah. “I have something I need to take care of. I’ll come by later, and we can talk about what to do with this.”

Sarah nods, and smiles unsteadily. John leans in, his hand tightening around hers, and places a soft kiss at the corner of her mouth.

“Go on,” he says firmly, drawing back and releasing her hand. “I’ll see you later.”

Sarah’s smile grows surer, and she walks away from him. John watches her go, waiting until she’s out of sight before limping to the car. He exchanges a quick glance of recognition with the driver and stoops to peer into the backseat. Anthea is wearing a black wasp-waisted jacket and a narrow skirt; one gloved hand rests in her lap, holding her pistol with its suppressor attached.

“He wants to see you,” she says.

“Does he,” John says, narrow-lipped.

Anthea crosses her legs, causing the hem of her skirt to ride up a little higher on her thigh.

“He said I was to do whatever it took to get you in the car,” she says, her eyelids sliding lower.

John’s gaze goes from the pistol in her lap to the pale oval of her kneecap, gleaming through sheer black stocking.

“Alright, I’ll come quietly,” he smirks.

 

Anthea opens the heavily paneled wooden door to a baronial office: deeply burnished mahogany, oriental rugs, and oxblood leather.

“Make yourself comfortable, he won’t be a minute,” she says to John, gesturing to the chair on the nearside of the large desk.

He sits down, and lays his cane down on the rug beside him.

“Captain Watson,” Mycroft says vaguely as he enters the room.

Anthea moves to leave.

“You’d better stay,” Mycroft says.

“Yes, sir,” Anthea says in mild surprise; she stations herself near the door and takes her Blackberry out.

Mycroft leans one hip against the edge of his desk, looming over John’s chair.

“I think it’s time we stopped beating about the bush,” Mycroft says with a slight smile, “got down to brass tacks.”

“Pissed or got off the pot,” John supplies blandly.

Mycroft’s smile curdles.

“Doctor Sawyer is in possession of a piece of very valuable, very stolen property,” he says.

“How do you - ” John scowls.

“I did tell you we’d be watching, _closely_ ,” Mycroft says.

“I know you’re not going to prosecute her,” John says, hard-eyed. “I know you don’t want to make any noise about this.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says, eyebrows raised. “What else do you think you _know_ , Captain Watson?”

“I know that leaf came from Aisha’s Veil,” John says. “The Afghans gave the veil to the British government for safekeeping, and you’ve gone and lost a bit off it. That’s not very good, is it? Not something you’re going to want in the papers.”

“We did not lose _a bit off it_ ,” Mycroft sneers, drawing himself up to the very last particle of his height but then sagging abruptly. “We lost the whole wretched thing.”

“ _What_?” John says on an explosive exhalation.

“The veil was moved from the university to a country house belonging to a member of the faculty,” Mycroft says. “From there it, together with a large sum of paper currency, was to be taken by a joint British-Afghan army escort to a rendezvous point. The Veil and the currency were to be flown out of the country by helicopter. There was – an _incident_ , on the way to the rendezvous. People were killed; the Veil and the currency disappeared.”

“The Afghans must have been pissed,” John frowns. “I’m surprised they didn’t make more noise about - ”

“We didn’t tell them,” Mycroft cuts in. “We said it had arrived safe and sound. They think it’s sitting in a vault in Whitehall for the duration.”

“Well that was a bloody stupid plan,” John says. “Sooner or later - ”

“The _plan_ ,” Mycroft says, glaring down at John, “is to _get it back_.”

“ _How_?” John says. “Are you going to ask around the Taliban? There’s - ”

“The Taliban don’t have it,” Mycroft says.

John’s scowl softens slightly in confusion; Mycroft leans closer, his pale eyes wide and intent.

“The only survivor of the incident was the commanding officer of the military escort,” he says, “but he was injured, badly enough to get to him sent home, where he now lives very quietly – and rather more opulently than one would expect of a retired major without family money.”

John’s chin comes up sharply, and his eyes are abruptly dark and fierce as flint.

“ _No_ ,” he says, “you’re talking about - ”

“ _Stay with me_ , Captain Watson,” Mycroft says, his eyes drilling into John’s. “You have an opportunity to render a significant service to your country.”

John nods hesitantly.

“The currency would have been easy to convert and move between countries,” Mycroft goes on. “The veil, however, would be a much more difficult proposition. Without very specialized connections, the only practical plan would be to hide the veil until such time as it could be melted down and sold only for the value of its gold.”

“Hidden where?” John asks dully.

“Well I rather think _you’re_ closer to answering that question than anyone else is,” Mycroft says, his eyes glittering.

John looks up at him, flinching as the pieces fall into place in his head.

“The notebook,” he says quietly. “The sketches – they’re a treasure map.”

“What notebook?” Mycroft scowls.

“The – what? What do you mean, _what notebook_?” John sputters. “I thought you know everything.”

“While I’m flattered by your inference, I’m really not God,” Mycroft says.

“There’s a monogrammed notebook that came back in Sawyer’s personal effects from Afghanistan,” John says quickly. “JBS – James Brendan Sawyer. Or - ”

He trails off, staring at Mycroft.

“James Bartholomew Sholto,” Mycroft supplies quietly.

“He think he _stole_ – you think the Taliban attacked them but didn’t realize what they were - ”

“Quite,” Mycroft cuts in, straightening up and turning his attention to some papers on the desk.

John exhales heavily, and shakes his head slightly.

“Well, I didn’t get very far with the map,” he says. “After the first couple of sketches, the landmarks are too minor to find from here.”

“Then you’d better try again there,” Mycroft says pleasantly.

“There,” John echoes.

“Mmm, Afghanistan,” Mycroft says.

John darts a glance at Anthea, but she’s utterly engrossed in her Blackberry.

“I’m – I’m not a soldier anymore,” John says to Mycroft. “I can’t just fly into Afghanistan.”

“Well of course you can,” Mycroft says, “if I say so.”

John’s eyes flicker narrowly, and his lips part slightly.

“Alright,” he says carefully. “I’ll go.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft beams.

“So, does this mean you’ve decided I’m not one of the villains?” John frowns.

“I’ve decided it’s irrelevant whether or not you are,” Mycroft says, “but you did take the leaf to Doctor Yao so that she could confirm your suspicions; if you were part of the conspiracy, you’d have already known exactly what it is and where it came from. Unless, of course, you visited Doctor Yao purely to mislead me – but I don’t think you’re that practiced at deceit.”

“Thank you,” John says.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Mycroft says with a purse-lipped smile. “Nonetheless, my assistant will go with you, to ensure there are no further _incidents_.”

“ _Sir_ ,” Anthea says in undisguised displeasure.

“The air will do you good,” Mycroft says to her. “You’re looking positively peaky, hanging about the office all the time.”

“Yes sir,” Anthea sighs.

“How soon can you leave?” Mycroft asks John.

“Tomorrow morning,” John says without hesitation. “I have something I need to do today.”

Mycroft hums discontentedly, but he nods his acceptance.

“Then I’ll wish you good luck,” he says. “And good hunting.”

 

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry, that was meant to be 'save as draft', i'm leaving it here cos the notifications will have gone out. sry :(
> 
> (adding to chapter as i write)

 

John calls ahead from the village of Coleman’s Hatch, which consists of a church, an inn, and a dozen houses standing at circumspect distance from the road, their roofs visible among the trees and rose creepers. After that, it’s another fifteen minutes’ drive through winding lanes, afternoon deepening into evening beneath the arching tree branches. At the turn off, there’s a pair of wrought iron gates, and a uniformed security guard sitting in a sentry’s box.

John lowers the car window as the guard gets up from her seat.

“John Watson,” he says with a pleasant smile. “He’s expecting me.”

“Can I see some identification?” the guard says.

John rummages his wallet out of his jacket and hands her his driver’s license. She turns it, front and back.

“Thank you, sir,” she says, returning it.

She steps back into the sentry box and presses the gate control. The wrought iron swings slowly open; John lifts a hand in acknowledgement and drives through.

The house is a graceful, foursquare Georgian surrounded by wide lawns and profuse plantings of sedately colored flowers and variegated greenery. John parks at the end of the gravel driveway, extracts himself and his cane from the car, and makes his way slowly up the broad stone steps to the front door. He presses the polished brass bell button, and hears the chime echo distantly inside the house.

After a minute or two, the door is opened by a uniformed maid who looks him up and down with undisguised interest.

“Um, John Watson – I’m expected,” John says.

“If you say so,” the maid says with a wide smile, “but I’d say you’re the most unexpected thing that’s happened all year.”

“He doesn’t have a lot of visitors, then,” John says, as she gestures him in and closes the door behind him.

She makes a noncommittal noise, obviously unwilling to discuss her employer too explicitly with a stranger. She leads John across the hallway, and knocks softly at a closed door.

“Enter,” a man’s voice rings from inside.

John’s chin comes up fractionally, his shoulder press back a little farther, and his mouth narrows. The maid opens the door on a spacious, carefully arranged sitting room.

Sholto is sitting in an armchair near the French windows, gazing out at the twilight gathering on the wide expanse of lawn surrounded by tall trees. The left side of his profile – the skin pale and roughened by scarring, the corner of his eyelid pulled slightly downwards – is towards the room. His left hand, also scarred and slightly misshapen, is lying in his lap.

“Major Sholto,” John says, as the maid withdraws and closes the door gently behind her. 

Sholto turns his head to reveal the unscarred right side of his face.

“Captain Watson,” he says, rising slowly from his seat.

John crosses to him, his face hard with the exertion of forcing his stride to near perfect symmetry.

“Well, we’re a pair,” Sholto says bleakly when John shifts his cane to shake hands.

He gestures John to the couch.

“Tea?” Sholto asks, “or something stronger?”

“No, thank you, sir,” John says as he sits down and sets his cane against the arm of the couch. “I won’t stay long. As I said, I just found myself in the neighborhood and - ”

“How are you?” Sholto cuts in, easing himself into the nearest armchair. “I saw you gave a damn fine account of yourself, before the other side winged you and put you out of the game.”

John’s gaze drops away from Sholto’s.

“I was the one who started that fight,” John says. “I knew what I was getting into; I had time to think it through, make my choices ahead of time.”

Sholto frowns, his pale eyes wary.

“You didn’t have that luxury,” John says, looking up to meet Sholto’s stare. “Being ambushed, I mean. Under fire, injured – I’m not sure we’re really ourselves, in that situation.”

Sholto’s frown deepens, but his eyes are abruptly softer, almost dismayed.

“Terrible business about Jonathan Small,” John says steadily.

“Who?” Sholto says instantly.

“Jonathan Small, second Princess of Wales,” John says. “Came home a couple of days ago and got murdered right in his own house. It was in the papers.”

“I – don’t keep up with the news,” Sholto says with a quick, chill smile.

John hums, his fingertips drumming noisily on the upholstered arm of the couch.

“I had lunch with James Sawyer’s widow a couple of weeks ago,” he says.

“Sawyer,” Sholto echoes, neither question nor statement.

“One of the medical officers at Sangin – small chap, dark hair, bit matinee idol looking,” John says.

“Of course,” Sholto says. “I think he was one of the fellows who patched me up when they brought me in after - "

He gestures at himself, encompassing the left side of his face and his left hand.

“ – if it wasn’t for Sawyer, I expect I’d look even worse than I do,” he says. “How is Missus Sawyer?”

“Doctor,” John corrects.

Sholto frowns, uncomprehending.

“She’s an MD, too,” John supplies. “She’s Doctor Sawyer.”

“My mistake,” Sholto says heavily.

“She’s alright,” John says, “getting on with her life.”

“Good,” Sholto says. “It’s a terrible thing, the way decent women get dragged into our recklessness.”

“You think James Sawyer was reckless,” John says.

“Well, he did manage to get himself killed, the very next day after my – incident,” Sholto says.

“By a suicide bomber, on the most secure base in the province,” John says. “No one could have seen that coming.”

“I certainly didn’t,” Sholto says, the unscarred corner of his mouth twitching subtly.

“I should be going,” John says, gathering his cane to him and hauling himself onto his feet again.

“Of course,” Sholto says, rising too. “Good of you to drop in. It’s always good to see an old face.”

He pulls the bell, and offers John his hand. John fumbles his cane from one hand to the other, and shakes Sholto’s hand briefly.

“Save the guns or spike them,” Sholto says abruptly. “It’s the Fusiliers’ creed, Watson. Rank pragmatism, in the end.”

“I have to go,” John says again, his face and voice scoured of all emotion.

Sholto nods, his pale, hard eyes suddenly unwilling to meet John’s. Sholto pulls on the bell, even as John begins to move towards the door.

“The maid will show you out,” Sholto says, though John’s already opening the sitting room door.

The maid appears on the far side of the hallway.

“Leaving already?” she smiles as John approaches her. “Hope you didn’t come a long way for that.”

“No, I was – passing this way,” John says.

“Alright, well, watch yourself driving round here in the dark,” she says, opening the front door for him.

“Deer?” John asks.

“Teenagers, mostly,” she smirks.

John flashes an answering smile, hard and bright and somewhat sour.

He limps down the stone steps, and back to his car. He unlocks the driver’s door and slips his cane behind the driver’s seat.

He pauses, one hand on the car roof, and for just a couple of seconds lets the wave of sickness break over him. He closes his eyes, his mouth twists and his hands clench into fists.

Almost at once, he gathers himself and gets into the car.

Twilight is gathering into nightfall. Where the winding lane straightens into a real road as it passes through the village, there’s a dark sedan car parked, a slight figure leaning against the rear roadside door. John pulls in just ahead and gets out of the car. Leaving his cane behind, he limps briskly back to the other car.

Anthea’s face is eerily illuminated by the screen of her Blackberry.

“Are you following me?” John demands.

Anthea lifts her eyes with obvious reluctance, and stares at him uncomprehendingly for a second.

“I’ve got lots of reasons to run a covert extraction operation from a roadside in Sussex,” she says, round-eyed.

John’s scowl crumples slightly.

“ _Of course I’m following you_ ,” Anthea snorts. “God you’re thick.”

John’s scowl flashes back for a second, and then dissolves into weary amusement.

“When are we leaving?” he asks.

“Your plane was waiting when you agreed to go,” Anthea smiles. “We can go whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” John says, his mouth quirked.

 


End file.
